Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(33)

He pulls out the stool beside me to sit down. “Thirsty?”

I take a swig from the bottle, shrugging, before looking his way. The second I see his face, I laugh. His nose is swollen and bruising, tape covering it.

I offer him the bottle. “You look like you can use some of this.”

He waves me off, saying, “I can’t mess with that hard stuff,” before motioning toward the bartender, asking for whatever’s on tap.

He sips his beer when it’s delivered, sighing, hunched over along the bar.

“So, how’d you explain your face?” I ask.

“Told the guys at work my grandson hit me with a ball, but I told my wife the truth,” he says, cutting his eyes at me. “Got head-butted by a perp.”

“A perp, huh? That about sums her up.”

“Tell me about it,” he says. “Got the judge to rescind the warrant this morning, got it wiped out of the system. Heard the Russian showed up and made a stink when nobody could tell him where she went.”

“He called me a bit ago.”

“Yeah? What did he want?”

“To use the kid to get me to cooperate,” I say. “He had her ask me for her mommy.”

Jameson makes a pained face. “He must be getting desperate.”

“He is, which means it’s probably going to get ugly soon. I’ll try to keep it all under the radar, so you’re not pulled in, but I wanted to give you the heads up so you’re not blindsided.”

He nods, sipping on his beer. “Do what you’ve gotta do for your girl, Gambini.”

“She’s not my girl.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says. “You’re sure going through a lot of trouble for a girl that’s not yours.”

“It’s principle,” I tell him. “The sooner this is over, the sooner my life can get back to normal.”

“Normal.” He laughs at that. “When the hell has your life ever been normal?”

I cut my eyes at him but ignore that question.

We drink in silence for a while.

Jameson shoves his glass aside when it’s empty. “I need your assurance that Aristov is the end of this.”

I look at him but say nothing.

“I’ve looked the other way on a lot of shit, Gambini,” he says. “I’ve buried a lot of evidence for you going back years. I let your friend walk for taking out all those bosses, because you came to me, a favor for a favor, when I had more than enough to lock him away for the rest of his life. So I need this particular situation to end with the Russians, okay?”

He’s not spelling it out, but I know what he’s getting at. “You want me to leave Detective Fuckface alone.”

“We had a deal, you and I... no cops. You remember that, don’t you?”

I don’t make promises, but I did tell him years ago that I wouldn’t target any boys in blue. It was his hard limit. I could raise as much hell as I wanted, but if I ever killed a cop, it would be all over, our arrangement off.

“You really want to cash in your favor for that scumbag?”

“No,” he says, laughing dryly. “I felt safer, knowing you owed me, so I hoped to keep that card for a long time, but I haven’t got much of a choice unless I want a fellow cop’s blood on my hands.”

“I can make him disappear, no blood at all.”

He cuts his eyes at me.

Apparently, he doesn’t like that idea.

“Okay, then. If the guy stops breathing, it won’t be my doing. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Deal.” I take a swig of rum before shoving the bottle aside, tossing some money onto the bar to pay as I stand up. I take a few steps away, pausing to glance back at him. “Just so we’re clear... do ventilators count? Because I can do a lot of damage if we let a respirator do his breathing for now on.”

Jameson’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lay a finger on him, Gambini. I mean it.”

I hold my hands up. “Just checking. Have a great day, detective.”

He mutters something before motioning for the bartender to bring him another beer.

I walk out, seeing my car still parked along the curb, Seven behind the wheel, tinkering with my phone. I climb in beside him and he cuts his eyes my way, carefully setting the phone down.

“Someone call?” I ask, picking it up.

“Yeah.” He starts the car. “A rental agency. Your brother put you down as a reference on his application for an apartment.”

“Did you handle it for me?”

“Of course,” he says. “Told them he was a great kid, a hard worker, responsible and respectable.”

“Good,” I say with a nod, settling in. “Thanks.”





Chapter Seven





Buster was still sitting on the mantle.

A layer of dust covered him, some soot from the fireplace streaking his patchy tan fur. He looked so sad, covered in darkness, the fireplace not lit and the lights not on.

The little girl crept closer, walking through the empty room, and stared up at him, frowning. She wondered if he still smelled like her mother, or if he’d just smell all dusty. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up, her fingertips grazing the bear’s scorched foot.